Full Tilt (Rock Star Chronicles)

by Creston Mapes

  “No!”

  “Then rejoice, Ev! God’s shaping you. He’s getting’ you ready for something big. The testing of your faith, the temptations—they produce endurance.”

  As she spoke, he could feel the wind coming back into his sails. “You are so perfect for me. Come here.”

  She took his hand, hopped on his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck, and gave him a kiss that was cold from the ice cream. “And you’re perfect for me,” she laughed, “because where else would my faith get tested so radically other than with you?”

  He playfully swatted her hip. “Very funny.”

  She blinked those long brown lashes and flashed him that radiant smile. “You’re never going to get rid of me, Everett Lester. I’m here for you till death do us part.”

  They drove home, hand in hand, passing only a few cars along the way. It was cold and black out as they pulled onto Old Peninsula Road.

  “My folks cried when I talked to them this morning about my infertility.” Karen eyed the winding road.

  “I forgot to ask how that went. I’m sorry.”

  “There hasn’t been time.”

  “What’d your dad say?”

  “He hit a wall.”

  Everett searched her face by the light of the dashboard. “Really?”

  “Once I told them the details, he had to get off the phone. He was crying. I mean, he was in agony. I’ve never heard my dad like that.”

  “Come here.” Everett put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

  “Mom was trying to be strong, but she was a mess, too.”

  “They know how much kids mean to you.”

  “Mom started talking about adoption right away.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too,” Everett said. “I guess I’m still trying to resign myself to the fact that I’ll never have a precious little girl with your smiling eyes.”

  Karen turned away. “I’m still in a fog. Adoption’s just not what I envisioned…”

  “I know.” He rested a hand on her knee. “Let’s just let this soak in. We need to pray about it.”

  “The folks wanted to know if they could come a couple days early.” Karen looked at him. “I told ’em yes.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I think they’ll fly in Tuesday or Wednesday.”

  “That’ll be great. Give Jacob and me a little more time to get organized for the prison gig.”

  As Everett turned the Honda into the driveway, they both regretted that they hadn’t left any lights on, inside or out. Twin Streams was black.

  “I had no idea we’d be gone this long.” He pushed the button on the garage door opener; they parked and went inside.

  “I’ll let Rosey out,” Karen said. “She’s got to be ready to burst.”

  “Okay.” Everett turned on several lamps and plugged in the Christmas tree lights. “I’m gonna get the mail.”

  Heading out the side door, he strolled down the pebble driveway, which was one of Karen’s favorite features of the place because it was lined on both sides by locust trees that blossomed with big clusters of white flowers in the spring.

  The main house looked beautiful beneath the starry sky. It was built on a foundation of old barn stones and had six bedrooms, many with their own balconies, and a magnificent wraparound porch.

  Passing the small, vacant house across the driveway, which had originally been built to house tenant farmers, Everett filled his lungs with the cold night air and cleared his head. There were no city lights to impair the view of thousands of stars, each hung by God and given its own name.

  The back floodlights came on, and Everett watched Rosey prance into the snow.

  Then he saw it—something standing in the yard where the manger scene once stood.

  “Everett!” Karen’s scream echoed from around back. “Come here, quick!”

  He had already broken through the locust trees and taken off running through the snow. When he got to the backyard, Rosey was sniffing and licking the base of the baby Jesus figure, which had been returned but was barely recognizable.

  Karen stood ten feet away with her hands locked over her mouth.

  “This can’t be happening.” She stared wide-eyed, her body frozen.

  Everett fell to his knees, glaring at the large words that had been scrawled over the baby Jesus in red: You Die.

  “Freaks!” He pounded the snow with his fists, his voice booming into the night. Fear mixed with fury and boiled within him as he scanned the grounds for intruders, ready to rip the head off of anything that moved.

  Rosey whined and zigzagged the area, her nose to the ground.

  Convinced the culprits had fled, Everett studied the wood figure in the glow of the floodlights. Karen still didn’t move. And for the next few chilling moments, Everett contemplated how on earth he would tell his wife that he suspected the horrendous inscription had been painted in blood.

  16

  IT WAS AFTER 10 p.m., but it felt like first thing in the morning to Wesley. He’d tried to sleep when Aunt Karen left that afternoon but—blast it—there was no way. The itching wouldn’t stop. It felt like cockroaches were crawling all over him. And the sweats, they came in waves, like the flu.

  He scrounged around in the gray duffel bag, sorting through various ammo and guns. Finding the bag of white-yellowish crystal-like powder, he squeezed it gently, put it up to his face, and inhaled.

  Wesley heard a noise in the unfinished part of the basement. He busted in and flicked on the overhead—nothing but stillness. Crossing to the lab, he found it was locked up tight.

  Then a smooth, mesmerizing voice spoke to him from the crossbeams. “Vengeance.”

  Wesley looked up at the ductwork, the wires, and copper pipes—but saw nothing.

  A low, insidious chuckle came from the ceiling.

  Wesley did a 360. Seeing no one, he slammed the light switch off, yanked the door closed, and leaned with his ear to it—listening.

  “They’re watching you,” the voice whispered.

  He dashed to the telephone and picked it up—dial tone.

  He fumbled for his cell phone, opened it, and examined the glowing screen. Normal.

  “I know you’re here.” Wesley twirled through the apartment from stereo speaker to stereo speaker. Nothing. He even checked the radio dial and receiver for hidden cameras or secret messages. None.

  He clicked on the TV and dropped into the recliner, mashing his nagging eyes with the palms of his hands. His skin prickled, and he grated the inside of his elbows and thighs with his long fingernails. When dots of blood appeared on the raw, pink patches he’d scratched, he repeatedly slammed his forearms and clenched fists on the arms of the chair as hard as he could.

  Death would be better than this.

  “I. Am. Ven–geance.” The loudening voice seemed to be coming from the wall.

  “You’re the devil! I know you are.” Wesley turned off the TV and ran into the bedroom, dove onto the waterbed, and ripped at the patch under his eye with four clenched fingers.

  “I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die—like David,” he repeated, partly because he hoped it was true and partly to drown out the voices.

  “Who says turn the other cheek?” The voice became arrogant. It was wicked and distressing—and so real it sent icy chills up Wesley’s arms and coaxed him to stand and stagger toward it.

  “I am Vengeance, and I own your mind, Wesley.”

  He dashed to the gathering room, threw the recliner out of the way, and smacked both arms against the bare wall. Canvassing it as if he were washing a billboard, he stopped suddenly—and listened.

  “You are not alive, and you are not dead.” The voice laughed. “You are mine.”

  Wesley jumped back. “Go away! Leave me alone, you…” He slid to his knees, ripped open the duffel bag, whipped out the Witness 9mm he’d pulled on Karen, and braced it with both hands in front of him, pointing at the wall. “I’ll blow your head off, you
filthy demon.”

  The low chuckle again. “Get your phone.”

  The cell phone rang.

  Wesley’s heart jackhammered. Out of breath, he grabbed it. “Yeah.”

  “Yo,” Tony Badino blared. “It’s time. Black Chevy Xtreme. It’ll be there in ten minutes. One gram. Two hundred bucks. Plus the .38 caliber Armscor. That’ll be another two fifty. That’s four hundred fifty bucks you need to collect. Got it?”

  “Yeah. Where you been?” The heat came again, sweat drenching his face.

  “I’m workin,’ dude. Plus I had to run errands for my old man. We all set?”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Wesley turned on the light to the deck outside his apartment and peered out, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “You remember those fire trucks I told you about? The ones I saw the other day at the house across the street—”

  “Oh no. You ain’t gonna start this again…”

  “Dude, I think they were planting cameras in my neighbor’s attic. No lie. I feel like we’re bein’ watched, maybe bugged. I’m talkin’ federal agents. Some kind of task force—”

  “Lester, listen to me. We are not bein’ watched! You’re freakin’ out again. I’d know if there was heat at your place. I guarantee it’s clean.”

  There was no way to stop rubbing his eye. It pricked and tingled and cried out to be scratched!

  “Lester, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I just feel so dang bad.” He wanted to cry and explode and die—all at once. He looked at the gun in his fist, and the chill of what it could do unnerved him. “I’m goin’ stir-crazy here. I need to take an ice-cold shower to stop this itching. I thought you were comin’ by with some more stuff. Man…the…the…the…I told you about Everett’s wife scopin’ this place out. Maybe she planted something for the Feds. Cameras maybe…”

  “Listen to me, you stinkin’ fool. Get ahold of yourself. You got another eight minutes. Here’s what you do. Right now. Take a tiny bit of that go-dust—I mean a fraction—from that bag you’re about to sell. Give yourself a bump.”

  “For real?” Wesley wanted to laugh hysterically.

  “Do it. You need it. These slam-heads comin’ over now are clueless. They ain’t gonna weigh it or nothin’. Go get yourself some of that chalk, but only just enough to get you heated. You hear me?”

  “Oh, yeah, Tony, yeah. Thanks, dude, thanks. I owe you.”

  Hands trembling at seizure magnitude, he slid the phone into the pocket of his baggy pants and went for the bag. Within seconds he was set up at the small kitchen table with a mirror, razor blade, straw, and the gram bag he was about to sell. If he had any saliva, his mouth would have been gushing, as the thrill of what he was about to do produced in him a complete and utter sense of ecstasy.

  He could do little to stop his hands from shuddering, and every once in a while his whole body jerked. But he was used to the symptoms and, in no time, had anxiously scraped together two imperfect lines of meth on the surface of the mirror with the razor blade, each about two inches long.

  “I’ll make you go away,” he yelled at the wall in the other room, then erupted in his own sadistic laugh.

  Bent over the mirror with the straw snug in his right nostril, Wesley ran the tooter the length of the first line, making every particle disappear.

  The rush came like a roaring waterfall. Oh yeah, baby.

  After exhaling, he breathed in again through his tingling nose, feeling his head drop backward and hoping the meth would crystallize in his brain so he could feel that way forever.

  Sheer flipping euphoria.

  “I’ll teach you to mess with me!” He vacuumed the next line with the opposite nostril and hunched over the table, giggling, a sense of well-being engulfing him.

  Boomity-boomity-boom. In a flash Wesley’s coat was on, the gun and gram were in a plastic bag, and he was out at the street. The black Xtreme came like clockwork. Two girls, a guy, and a dog—all white. Looking to get cranked up.

  The dude in the Xtreme was a smart mouth, tryin’ to show off for the ladies. It didn’t matter. Nothin’ did. Wesley was flying high, and there were no more voices. He kept his own mouth shut, produced the white bag from the waist of his pants, got the four fifty, and made for the house. Easy money for him and Badino.

  Back inside his parents’ part of the house, it was warm, dark, and smelled like, what? Chinese? Wesley nudged his boots off by the rug in the kitchen and crept out to the family room. A lone spotlight lit up the large painting of Madison’s over the fireplace—of a barn, a field, and a stormy sky.

  He stopped on the big, soft Oriental rug in the middle of the room, admiring the watercolor, feeling his face grow warmer, hearing the tap-tapping of his racing heart and enjoying the keen sense of alertness and sensitivity to the once-again-conquerable world around him.

  The sound of a TV came from back in the den. He walked that way. Dim light sliced through the small opening leading into the room.

  Wesley went closer, right up to the door. His dad was alone, seated on the leather ottoman two feet from the TV, his elbows resting on his knees, and his hands in the prayer position in front of his face. Only he wasn’t praying. He was concentrating on a basketball game.

  “No, no, no.” Eddie raised a fist toward the TV. “Don’t give him that! How can you leave the best guy in the NCAA wide open from twelve feet? Gimme a break!”

  Several bandages dotted his face. He wore shiny blue sweats. And he was glued to the game with such intensity, there simply had to be more at stake than just good old Ohio spirit. Besides, Eddie had attended Ohio Wesleyan, not Ohio State. Something funky was going on in the old man’s world.

  “Come on, Buckeyes. Make it happen. Work it in. There he is, wide open! That’s right…yes!” With the basket, Eddie stood abruptly, pumped his fist, and then swigged from a glass that was forming a ring on the TV. Setting it back down, he paced in front of the tube like a coach in front of his bench.

  Wesley headed for the stairs to his apartment, trying without success to recall the last time his dad had paid as much attention to him as he was that game. But this was old news. Been that way all his life. Nothing was going to change. Forget it.

  Crossing back through the family room, he became curious about his mom’s whereabouts. Grabbing the banister, he leaped up the stairs two at a time. Passing David’s old room, a bathroom, and Madison’s room—where light shone from beneath the door—he went to the end of the hall and tapped on the door of the master bedroom. No answer.

  After knocking again, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. The smell of his mother’s perfume was strong. Although there was no sound, the bluish glow from the home shopping channel on the wall-mounted TV lit up the elegant room. Near the TV, half covered in gold satin sheets and a down comforter, Mom lay on her side, black sleeping mask covering her eyes. She looked tiny in that enormous bed.

  Wesley crept to her side. A flask of something—it smelled like whiskey—lay on the nightstand, along with three bottles of prescription medicine. Two of them were open. There were still plenty of pills in all three.

  He tucked her arm that was hanging off back onto the bed and pulled the soft covers up to her chin. She didn’t move. He stood over her and stared at his mother. After a few seconds, he lifted the mask to the top of her head so he could see her whole face. He kissed her softly on the cheek, smelling the whiskey that seemed to ooze from her pores.

  “What are you doing?” came Madison’s loud whisper in the doorway.

  He pulled the mask back down over his mother’s eyes, went to the door, and exited in front of his sister.

  “Checkin’ on Mom.” He walked back toward the steps.

  Madison shut the door quietly and followed him as far as her room. “She passed out again.”

  He kept walking.

  “Who was that you met out front?”

  He turned around and faced Madison. “None of your business.”

  “Ye
ah, it is my business. You know why? Because as long as you keep doing whatever you’re doing, I’ve got to stay here.”

  “Oh, really?” He walked toward her. “Why’s that?”

  “’Cause I’m afraid someone’s gonna get hurt. What was in the bag?”

  He entered her room and nodded toward the window. “I saw you and Aunt Karen looking down at me today.”

  “So?”

  “So, did she tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Never mind.” He started to leave, thinking Aunt Karen might not know he was at Twin Streams after all. But he stopped when he saw the small black Bible on her dresser. Picking it up, he leafed through the first few pages, saw Karen’s name, and smirked.

  Madison pointed to the rash around his eye. “What did you do?”

  “She gave this to you?” He wagged the Bible at her.

  “Aunt Karen’s sweet,” Madison said. “So’s Uncle Everett. No matter what you say. Your eye is a mess, and your wrist is bleeding.”

  He looked down and wiped the blood on the front of his shirt. “No worries.”

  “She said something happened at their house last night.” Madison took the Bible out of his hands and set it back on the dresser. “And that they saw a white Yukon.”

  “What happened?” His mind flashed back to Twin Streams, the manger scene, the dogs—how berserk Badino had gone.

  “She wouldn’t say. Was it you?”

  He walked out into the hallway.

  “You were with Tony Badino last night,” Madison prodded. “He’s supposed to be nuts. I heard he’s into Satan worship.”

  “What? Where’d you hear that?”

  “A friend who would know.”

  He blew it off. “What’s goin’ on with the old man? You see he got banged up?”

  “Yeah.” She plunked down on the bed. “Said somebody tried to take his wallet on the subway.”

  “Right.” Wesley leaned against the doorframe. “And he fought back?”

  “I don’t know what’s goin’ on, but whatever it is, Uncle Everett bailed him out. You need to be nice to him and Aunt Karen. They’re good people.”